Blaze and Fail
by vonPeeps
Summary: One shot. Molly sees a new side to Sherlock - how does she process what she finds? Set an indefinite time post S3, established (but fairly new) relationship.


_ The woman walks into the ocean in a red ball gown, her arms wrapped around her ribs, fighting off the cold of the pre-dawn light. Pushing past the wavelets that snag at her ankles, seeking oblivion in the snap of cold that pulls all thoughts of him from her mind. Thoughts of harsh words flung at her in temper, sights seen that should have stayed in the shadows, the crashing reality that her sterile understanding of him had been built on her own murmurs and lies._

"You only see what you wanted to see. I'm not that man, and that's why you're cross now."

"That's not true. I love you, but…"

"Ha. You love me, but… There can't always be a 'but' in that sentence. If only I were different. If only I were kinder, cheerier, more polite, more nice." Curling his lip in distaste, he gazed slightly past her shoulder, eyes already fading from flashing to distant.

"No, that's not it…"

"Then enlighten me, Miss Hooper. What is this 'but' that knows the whole of me, accepts it, and still finds it lacking. What exactly…"

_ Catching her hair, the wind dragged its fingers through her hair, snatching curls that had come loose from their pins, snagging and pulling against the slick of hairspray applied so enthusiastically at the start of the evening. Goosebumps ghosting up her arm in the frigid air, she barely notices the tears streaking their way down her face, the broken weeps catching in her throat. _

Where had he got to, that exasperating man? Yes there was a case, and yes that case was a nine, even if it had been sent their way by Mycroft, but surely Sherlock wanted to spend some of the evening by her side? Why else had he insisted that she come, and wear this ridiculous dress at that. The rustle of the stiff satin prickled at her skin, and the style, much suited to an older woman, made her feel like her six year old self, playing dress up in her mother's wardrobe.

Pushing her way through the French doors, she stepped out to the terrace beyond, desperate for a breath of fresh air and an escape from the stifling air of the heaving ballroom. Pulling in long breaths to compose herself, her eyes sliding shut in the cool dark of the night, she almost missed the flicker of movement to her right. But not the half shout of pain.

_ A tight pain lodges itself in her chest, a pain more blinding than being struck, more debilitating than any disease she ever had. And each wave of emotion that hits her tightens it even more, a slow, steady tightening of the vice. Naïve. The word eats at her, flung with as much venom as whore, slut, bitch. The very worst crime he could imagine, a seemingly wilful ignorance of reality, of true knowledge, in favour of a sugar coated dream. _

Twirling slightly to face him, the full skirt flaring as she moved, her eyes widened as they met his assessing gaze, slightly stunned.

"I don't look like me. I'm…."

"Precisely the point, Molly. We'd hardly be that successful undercover if we looked like us." Narrowing his eyes at her slight giggle, he waved his hand slightly, tacit permission to continue.

"It's just so… unusual. Who would think of me, Molly Hooper, off to infiltrate a society function to track down a stolen racehorse belonging to a Saudi prince? Its straight out of a Mills and Boon, you'll be trying to ravish me on the beach when we're done…"

_ A pulse of nausea rushes through her, forcing her to her knees as she retches fruitlessly into the foam that now stains the red satin deep black. Each wave pushes the mark higher above her waist, but numb to the cold now, she makes no attempt to rise even as the nausea passes on its way. One hand pushed against her stomach against the ache, she swipes futilely at her hair with the other, leaving wet tangles in place of the dry flyaways stuck in the tracks of her tears. _

Sinking silently against the wall as she had been taught years ago, in the wake of the fall, Molly ran through all the ways to make herself inconspicuous. Her eyes fixed on the blade in the shadowed man's hand, only visible by the glint of the moonlight off the razor sharp edge. Where was Sherlock now?

"Now, so that we're clear, Straker. Run me through it one more time."

"Piss off, I ain't telling you nothin'. I'm the victim here, got the lump on me head to prove it."

"You're awfully feisty for a man with a surgical scalpel pressed up against his jugular. I've already deduced the bulk, all I need from you is the present location of Silver Blaze itself."

Rising to his toes, bringing himself eye to eye with his aggressor, the shorter man gave one long look, before rearing back slightly to spit all over the taller man's face. Pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, Molly screwed her eyes shut as chaos descended.

_ As minutes pass, her tears subside, sinking back down to a wintry pit in her breast, as numb as the stiff unfeelingness in her wind and water chilled limbs. Opening her eyes, she lifts her eyes to gaze up at the sky, indifferent to the beauty of the stars, and the scratches of clouds lit red by the rising sun. Seeing only the void, immense, unreachable. _

"What exactly is it you think I do? You know about Magnussen. You know why John carries a gun, you even dated Moriarty, and yes, two work lunches and an evening watching Glee _does_ count when you call someone your boyfriend to make me jealous."

"You were just… its like you weren't even…"

"Human? You may as well say it when you think it that loud."

"No that's not what I meant. I can't say it right, I was just…"

"Surprised? Horrified? Repulsed? You can't be so, so… naïve, as to think I can solve the cases I do, against the people I face, without picking up a few stains of my own. How many times have I told you, I'm not one of the angels in this story?"

Wringing her hands in front of her, her eyes downcast, she finally screwed up the nerve to respond. "I was just scared," she muttered, her voice low. "Of you." And in a flash of black, he was gone.

_ Lost. Unfeeling, insensible to the world around her, she sits in the surf, gasping only when firm hands fix on her shoulders to haul her to her feet. Dragged around and pressed against his chest, those hands firm just seconds before now running delicately over her body and face, checking for wounds that aren't there, on the outside at least._

"_God, Molly. Just. Don't ever do that again. What were you thinking?"_

_ Beginning to shake as her awareness returns, her arms suddenly snake up to clutch desperately at the dark tweed that covers his back. "I didn't mean to… I was wrong…"_

_ Hushing her with a finger raised to her lips, his head tips down to look intently at her, eyes crinkling as he considers his words carefully._

"_Molly… I am not a good man, not your prince, certainly not a hero. I know I have flaws, that I am certainly not good at… this. But what I do know is that, for this to work, for us to work, we need to see each other as we honestly are."_

"_But I see so much good in you…"_

"_You need to decide whether you can accept the shade too, though." _

_ He continues to regard her, the way her eyes slip closed as she sinks her head to his chest, silent. Have his words brought her peace? Acceptance? Or is this defeat? He sees, but he cannot deduce. Not this time. _


End file.
